Vodou believers attend a procession during a ceremony for Ti Jean Petro in Brooklyn.

Haitian photographer Dieu-Nalio Chery grew up knowing little of Vodou. The son of a pastor, Chery wanted to explore the national religion of the Haitian people to better understand the figures and rites that had historically been syncretized with Catholic iconography during the colonial era and thereafter hidden under the veil of Roman Catholicism. Chery earned a living as a news photographer for the Associated Press, but when he wasn’t working on major news stories — at increasing risk to himself and his
family — he visited sacred sites.

His day job soon overtook everything. In 2021, his ongoing reporting on Haiti’s gangs led to threats on his life. He and his family relocated to New York City, where he studied journalism as his family began its journey to claim asylum. The unexpected move brought him the chance to expand his exploration of Vodou in a new context: the diasporic Haitian community in Brooklyn that practiced Vodou semisecretly. Generally, Vodou is practiced in the open air, deep in the countryside, but the constraints of the urban environment forced worshippers in New York to hold ceremonies in basements, out of public view. Over time, he gained the group’s trust and was invited to glimpse a way of life that is notoriously tight-lipped, holds on to remnants of a colonial past, and openly performs feats that most would consider pure magic.

From Haiti and its diaspora, Chery has drawn a portrait of a religion and way of life. His powers of observance offer a different view than the distorted perceptions that pervade pop culture’s appropriation of Vodou. Chery’s photographs situate a distinctly new-world spirituality formed from the syncretic mix of West African Vodun and Roman Catholicism. Vodou hinges on the mystic connection between practitioners and the loa — ethereal entities somewhat like saints or angels — that are called down to possess a human being and offer advice, healing, and power. Whether one hopes for financial success, recovery from an ailment, or even a spiritual “spouse,” the loa and their actions are understood to be of help in all aspects of human life. Like in Haiti, the Brooklyn ceremonies focus mainly on the possession of practitioners by the loa; however, space constraints and local laws (around, for example, the ritual killing of livestock) have forced practitioners to innovate.

I spoke with Chery in Union Square. My father, who was born in Port-au-Prince, tagged along. Together, we spoke in a hybrid form of English, Haitian Creole, and French, our conversation itself a microcosm of the cultural forces and historical movements that wove together to form the Creole religion that is Vodou. Chery spoke to us of his work in Haiti, of the baffling things he has witnessed at underground Vodou ceremonies, and of his attempt to document the struggles of a Haitian diaspora that strives to maintain its identity far from home.

Gabriel Noel for Guernica

In a basement that serves as a temple in Brooklyn, Vodou believers surround a priestess possessed by a spirit.

Guernica: In Haiti, you focused mainly on political reporting and hadn’t done much research into the religion and its customs. How did you get involved with these Brooklyn practitioners?

Chery: As a Christian, I didn’t know anything about Vodou. I used to be terrified passing by cemeteries and places like that. When I entered journalism school, they let me cover whatever subject I wanted, so I decided to cover Vodou. But what caught my attention was that, when reading books and histories on Vodou, the religion was painted in a bad light. I knew about the Bois Caïman ceremony [a landmark ceremony, organized by enslaved insurgents in 1791, that embodied the fusion of religion and revolution that characterizes Haitian Vodou] and how they used Vodou to fight Napoleon, but it was clear that the story was coming from a European perspective.

In 2021, three days after covering a protest, I received a call from a friend who told me that a gang was looking for me, for having taken unfavorable photos. My blood pressure went sky-high. I knew that these people had power and that they could kill me. I organized my papers and got a scholarship at the CUNY Graduate School for Journalism. I was trying to see what kinds of projects I could do. I know that when people see me, a Black man from Haiti, they think about Vodou, and not in a good way. So I decided to demystify the stigma around Vodou. James Estrin, a mentor of mine from CUNY and The New York Times, told me about these Vodou practitioners in Brooklyn he met for a piece he was doing on religion.

Guernica: Do you see any differences between Vodou as it’s practiced in Haiti and Vodou as it’s practiced in Brooklyn?

Chery: Vodou believers in Haiti practice their faith openly. They go to the cemetery to honor their ancestors, they go to Vodou temples throughout the country, and they hold Vodou festivals throughout the year. But in New York, with all the stigma against Vodou, believers must practice undercover. Often, this means using basements that offer even a modicum of soundproofing. When neighbors would hear the sound of the drums, they would call the police to stop the ceremony.

These believers have been struggling for years to maintain their culture in the States.
Their religion is based on nature; practitioners usually use the earth rather than a concrete floor. But they are now in a city without trees and, in winter, a city under a freezing sun. They can’t use live animals for ritual sacrifice. Everything is expensive. Paying the drummers, renting a space, and buying things — food, alcohol, dresses, flowers, and Vodou accessories — can be costly. In New York, Vodou ceremonies only happen at night and during weekends. They don’t really do any ceremonies during winter because it’s too cold.

Mackenson Pierre, a Vodou priest and tailor, crafts Vodou dresses for upcoming ceremonies from his home in the Bronx.

Guernica: Vodou is a way of life that thrives in open spaces and often in a rural setting. How do these Brooklyn practitioners adjust?

Chery: It’s very difficult for them. The pandemic made it even harder, because they’d be crowded in such tight spaces. I remember being at a ceremony where it was so crowded that I couldn’t even stand up to take a picture, so I had to leave. It was impossible to respect any kind of social distancing.

They try to maintain their culture here despite discrimination and distorted images from popular culture. For example, Hollywood’s depiction of zombies was shocking to them. They’ve also fought about the spelling of “Vodou.” In American English, it’s “Voodoo,” which they find pejorative. In 2012, the Library of Congress, under the recommendation of some Vodou practitioners and scholars, was able to get the spelling officially changed. From then on, the spelling has to be corrected — in official documents, dictionaries, everywhere. They’re now trying to open community temples so they can practice openly. They want people to see that they have nothing to hide, but the colonial habit is strong. Even in Haiti, Vodou wasn’t officially recognized until 2003. They’ve recently started doing possessions in public, as well as prayers for the situation in Haiti, since they can’t go back to honor their ancestors. Sometimes they have trouble finding a place to practice due to the poor public perception. They say it’s Vodou’s strength that makes others think they are bad people. It’s a nature religion, they explained. But they were honest with me: they said that there’s good and bad in every religion. Vodou is power. If you give ignorant people power, they can do whatever they want, which is why some malefactors use Vodou to harm.

Vodou believers perform a ritual during a ceremony to honor their ancestors, in a Brooklyn restaurant rented to serve as a temple.

Guernica: Were the members of the group open to journalists like you?

Chery: They’re not welcoming to everybody. When I told them that I was interested in doing a story on their group, I told them that I was Haitian, which made it much easier to gain their trust. I remember when I was starting the story, a mambo [Vodou priestess] told me, “Don’t put me in your report. If you do, I’ll sue you.” I never photographed her. But after seeing me multiple times, once during a ceremony that went from eight in the evening to five in the morning, she pulled me aside and said, “Chery, come talk to me. I have no problem with you. I want to be in your story — I see that you’re patient, you’re always around. I like what you’re doing, and I want to help you with it.” Once she said that, everyone else opened up as well. This was key, because if you’re not told where and when a ceremony is going to happen, you’ll never find out about it. They mostly occur at night, which is a remnant of colonialism, when Vodou was illegal and people had to practice in secret.

Guernica: Is there a limit to what you have access to as a journalist?

Chery: Yes, there’s a limit, a barrier. They would always tell me that I would have to be initiated to keep walking deeper down the path of what I was doing. There would be times when they were initiating people and wouldn’t allow me to be there. They would say that I’m not pure enough. In Haiti, there would be some part of a ceremony happening, and they would ask me and other journalists to put our cameras away. We could look with our eyes, but not record it.

In a storefront that serves as a temple in Queens, Vodou believers perform a ritual in a ceremony to honor their ancestors.

Guernica: Many of the claims of Vodou, particularly the possession of people by a particular loa, seem outlandish or impossible from a Western, Cartesian worldview. How would you describe your understanding of what is happening in a ceremony?

Chery: As the practitioners themselves say, Vodou is mysterious. It’s because of the mystery that people can’t understand it and say plenty of bad things about it. I’ve witnessed a lot of people get possessed by the spirits, and I can tell — it’s real. It’s a real thing happening, and something that you can’t imagine.

Guernica: So the person is really possessed by a spirit.

Chery: Yes. And when they are possessed, the person will react like the spirit. I’ve even seen a mambo, very old, who can’t even work, and when she got the spirit, she was like a young lady: dancing, moving, doing everything. When they talk about Dambala, for example — Dambala is a spirit that’s a snake — when Dambala gets onto someone, they become like a snake. You’ll see in one of the photos I took — a woman was lying in a little bathtub, possessed by Dambala, and only wanted to stay in the water, just like some snakes in real life. There’s a loa, Legba, who has trouble walking. You’ll see someone who is completely able-bodied, and when he is possessed by this spirit, he becomes crippled and needs a cane.

A Vodou priestess is possessed by a spirit during a ritual in a Brooklyn restaurant rented to serve as a temple.

Guernica: So it’s as if their whole body language, their whole being, just changes?

Chery: Exactly. The spirit comes, and if it’s happy with the offering it was given, it eats and shares it with people. I’ve never seen the spirit do something bad in front of me. It’s just a ceremony: the spirit comes, and they eat. But if one of the practitioners — they call them “children” — has done something bad, they punish that person. I saw a spirit who, when punishing someone, made it so that they couldn’t get up from the floor. They spent the whole ceremony immobilized. Every spirit reacts in their own way. There’s a spirit called Ogou Feray, for example, who uses machetes. When he arrives, he picks up a machete and starts brandishing it. No one is afraid of him, and there aren’t any accidents.

Guernica: What’s the most exceptional thing you’ve seen at a ceremony? Something someone else would hear and say, “That’s just not possible.”

Chery: There is this perfume called Florida Water that they use, and according to the practitioners I’ve spoken to, it’s poisonous in large amounts. I saw a spirit come and drink the whole bottle, and after the spirit left, the person was completely normal. It was incredible. Sometimes the loa comes, and many people get possessed at the same time. They just pour a little Florida Water on them, and you see that person transform, get a spirit, and start doing things that that person, in their normal life, would never do.

Vodou priestesses are possessed by spirits during a ritual of a wedding of a Dominican American man with Erzulie Freda, a female spirit.

Guernica: Is the mambo or houngan always under possession?

Chery: No, not always. But someone always gets possessed, and the person who gets possessed has to have some relationship to Vodou or the loa. I once witnessed a person, a newcomer who was just curious, come to a ceremony and get possessed out of the blue, but we found out that his grandparents had been involved in Vodou. So there has to be some ancestral connection. I was surprised to see a lot of people, especially white people, get married to Vodou spirits. I would assist the wedding, which is just a normal wedding.

Guernica: What role does music play in these ceremonies?

Chery: The drums play a huge role in Vodou. The spirit called down depends on the song being played. If the song is not for that particular spirit, it will never come. The drummers have to know how to play those songs. It can’t just be anyone.

Guernica: And what about the veve, the symbol uniquely associated with each loa?

Chery: The veve is about the spirit. When anyone who knows about Vodou sees a veve, they know what spirit is being referenced. If they don’t put the veve down [literally draw the symbol on the ground] to call the loa, it simply won’t come. If they’re going to call Dambala, for example, you’ll see that the veve has the image of a snake on it.

Using corn, a Vodou believer puts down a veve before a basement ceremony begins.

Guernica: Do you see younger people getting involved in Vodou as well?

Chery: That’s a good question. There is a whole younger generation of Vodou that I witnessed. A lot of the children of mambos, houngans, and practitioners are becoming initiates also. They’re young mambos, young houngans. It’s spectacular. I can’t imagine it. Sometimes they get possessed, and you’ll see that there’s a lot of energy there.

Guernica: Do you think their parents are pushing them into the religion?

Chery: Not at all. They make no effort to bring them in. The kids are clearly interested.

Photographs by Dieu-Nalio Chery for The Washington Post.

Dieu-Nalio Chery

Based in Michigan, Dieu-Nalio Chery is a freelance photojournalist working for The New York Times, The Washington Post, Reuters, and the Associated Press. He is currently a fellow at City of Asylum/Detroit. He has won numerous awards, including the 2019 Robert Capa Gold Medal. He was a 2020 Pulitzer Prize finalist and a 2015 Magnum Foundation Fellow.

Gabriel Noel

Gabriel Noel is an editorial assistant for Guernica. Born and raised in the Bronx, New York, to Haitian immigrants, he is currently pursuing an MFA in fiction at the City College of New York.

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